Closer to the Edge
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“I NEED TWO men covering the southwest entrance. We’re not letting these assholes disappear into thin air again,” I mutter into my wireless mic.
Scanning the dense rainforest that has served as our basecamp the last few days, I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and silently curse the bulletproof vest and tactical gear piled on my body, the extra layers making the humid weather in this place a thousand times worse.
Please, God, don’t let anything get fucked up this time.
After nine months in the Dominican Republic, gathering intel, living out of fleabag motels and completely cut off from communication with anyone back home, I’m ready for this to be over. I’m ready to put an end to the monster who’s haunted my dreams for two years, who kept me from a future with the woman I love and who was directly responsible for the deaths of my best friends.
My thoughts, momentarily consumed by all the things I’ve lost and the hope that it’s not too late to get at least one of them back when this is all said and done, are interrupted by the static from the mic in my ear. “I’ve got movement coming from an upstairs window, south side, third from the left. Permission to fire?”
Crouching down, I slowly inch my way through the brush two hundred yards from the two-story shack hidden in the woods. “We need a positive I.D. on Fernandez before you take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot until identification is established.”
I hear Hoss curse through the mic. “Motherfucker keeps moving in and out of range. I’m going to try and get closer.”
Chuck ‘Hoss’ Miller is one of the best sharp shooters I’ve ever met, aside from myself, and I trust him to finish this job. He earned his nickname the very first time he opened his country bumpkin mouth and his Tennessee twang boomed through the room.
Pressing my back up against the trunk of a palm tree, I take a deep breath, the muggy tropical air making it feel like I’m breathing in water.
It fucking pisses me off that I’m not going to be the one to put a bullet through Luis Fernandez’s head, but it was more than obvious to my SEAL commander that I’m too close to this situation to be the one to pull the trigger. Just knowing the fucker who ruined so many lives is almost close enough to spit on makes my blood boil. As much as it pains me to admit it, I don’t know if I could actually go through with ending his life with one shot between the eyes. A quick and painless death is too good for this worthless piece of shit.
A rustling in the trees to my left has me swinging in that direction, both hands firmly clasping my Navy-issued Sig Saur.
“Don’t shoot, dick head,” Hoss whispers as he weaves his way in between the vegetation that surrounds us. He may sound like an extra on Hee Haw, but the dude is built like a brick shithouse. Tossing bales of hay and wrestling steer on the family farm helped produce biceps roughly the size of my entire body. He looks like one of those steroid-induced body builders whose arms are so big they probably can’t even wipe their own ass, but he’s a hell of a shot and can take down ten men without breaking a sweat, so I don’t give a fuck about his bathroom hygiene.
I lower my weapon and turn back to face the house. “Everyone in place?”
Hoss stops next to me and we both stare straight ahead, waiting for movement from within. “Yep. Lucky followed Zeus to the southwest entrance so he could babysit him.”
I shake my head with a snort. Rob ‘Lucky’ McKenzie, aptly named for his ability to cheat death every fucking time it comes knocking on his door, doesn’t have arms the size of tree stumps like Hoss, but he does have a guardian angel perpetually perched on his shoulder. Since everyone who fucks with him easily meets his Maker, Lucky is usually charged with keeping an eye on Paul ‘Zeus’ Simpson. The youngest of us and the one voted Most Likely to be Distracted—Squirrel!, Zeus (Zero Effort Unless Supervised) always needs a keeper.
This is my team, the men I handpicked to come back to hell with me. They have no wives, no children and no family left waiting for them at home, worrying and praying for their safe return. They are loners who live and breathe the SEALs, and they are exactly the kind of men I wanted with me this time.
When I left the Dominican after the mission that killed my best friends two years ago, I thought I could move on. I honestly believed I could forget the horrors I’d witnessed, settle down with a good woman and never look back. For a year and a half, I managed to fool myself and everyone else into thinking I could be the guy who left the SEALs, set up house on the beach and did nothing but make love to his woman and dream about a future that was just within his grasp.
It was working, too. For eighteen months, my life was damn near perfect, but one late night call from my old section chief completely obliterated the fantasy I’d created. Luis Fernandez, brother of Emilio Fernandez, the former president of the Dominican Republic and the man we took down two years ago for running an underage prostitution ring, was taking up the reins of the family business. Behind the scenes, with the help of Emilio’s loyal followers, Luis Fernandez picked right up where his brother left off after he was killed in prison. Under Luis’ watch, the prostitution ring had become more organized and more deadly, with young girls disappearing right under people’s noses and a steadily climbing body count.
I had no problem reminding the chief that I was retired, living the good life on the beach in California, and that this mission, not on US soil or involving US citizens, was not my problem. The first time we ventured into the Dominican to break up the prostitution ring, it was personal. One of our own had faked his death and claimed his spot as the son of President Fernandez, helping the sick bastard kidnap and rape young girls.
Scanning the dense rainforest that has served as our basecamp the last few days, I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead and silently curse the bulletproof vest and tactical gear piled on my body, the extra layers making the humid weather in this place a thousand times worse.
Please, God, don’t let anything get fucked up this time.
After nine months in the Dominican Republic, gathering intel, living out of fleabag motels and completely cut off from communication with anyone back home, I’m ready for this to be over. I’m ready to put an end to the monster who’s haunted my dreams for two years, who kept me from a future with the woman I love and who was directly responsible for the deaths of my best friends.
My thoughts, momentarily consumed by all the things I’ve lost and the hope that it’s not too late to get at least one of them back when this is all said and done, are interrupted by the static from the mic in my ear. “I’ve got movement coming from an upstairs window, south side, third from the left. Permission to fire?”
Crouching down, I slowly inch my way through the brush two hundred yards from the two-story shack hidden in the woods. “We need a positive I.D. on Fernandez before you take the shot. I repeat, do not take the shot until identification is established.”
I hear Hoss curse through the mic. “Motherfucker keeps moving in and out of range. I’m going to try and get closer.”
Chuck ‘Hoss’ Miller is one of the best sharp shooters I’ve ever met, aside from myself, and I trust him to finish this job. He earned his nickname the very first time he opened his country bumpkin mouth and his Tennessee twang boomed through the room.
Pressing my back up against the trunk of a palm tree, I take a deep breath, the muggy tropical air making it feel like I’m breathing in water.
It fucking pisses me off that I’m not going to be the one to put a bullet through Luis Fernandez’s head, but it was more than obvious to my SEAL commander that I’m too close to this situation to be the one to pull the trigger. Just knowing the fucker who ruined so many lives is almost close enough to spit on makes my blood boil. As much as it pains me to admit it, I don’t know if I could actually go through with ending his life with one shot between the eyes. A quick and painless death is too good for this worthless piece of shit.
A rustling in the trees to my left has me swinging in that direction, both hands firmly clasping my Navy-issued Sig Saur.
“Don’t shoot, dick head,” Hoss whispers as he weaves his way in between the vegetation that surrounds us. He may sound like an extra on Hee Haw, but the dude is built like a brick shithouse. Tossing bales of hay and wrestling steer on the family farm helped produce biceps roughly the size of my entire body. He looks like one of those steroid-induced body builders whose arms are so big they probably can’t even wipe their own ass, but he’s a hell of a shot and can take down ten men without breaking a sweat, so I don’t give a fuck about his bathroom hygiene.
I lower my weapon and turn back to face the house. “Everyone in place?”
Hoss stops next to me and we both stare straight ahead, waiting for movement from within. “Yep. Lucky followed Zeus to the southwest entrance so he could babysit him.”
I shake my head with a snort. Rob ‘Lucky’ McKenzie, aptly named for his ability to cheat death every fucking time it comes knocking on his door, doesn’t have arms the size of tree stumps like Hoss, but he does have a guardian angel perpetually perched on his shoulder. Since everyone who fucks with him easily meets his Maker, Lucky is usually charged with keeping an eye on Paul ‘Zeus’ Simpson. The youngest of us and the one voted Most Likely to be Distracted—Squirrel!, Zeus (Zero Effort Unless Supervised) always needs a keeper.
This is my team, the men I handpicked to come back to hell with me. They have no wives, no children and no family left waiting for them at home, worrying and praying for their safe return. They are loners who live and breathe the SEALs, and they are exactly the kind of men I wanted with me this time.
When I left the Dominican after the mission that killed my best friends two years ago, I thought I could move on. I honestly believed I could forget the horrors I’d witnessed, settle down with a good woman and never look back. For a year and a half, I managed to fool myself and everyone else into thinking I could be the guy who left the SEALs, set up house on the beach and did nothing but make love to his woman and dream about a future that was just within his grasp.
It was working, too. For eighteen months, my life was damn near perfect, but one late night call from my old section chief completely obliterated the fantasy I’d created. Luis Fernandez, brother of Emilio Fernandez, the former president of the Dominican Republic and the man we took down two years ago for running an underage prostitution ring, was taking up the reins of the family business. Behind the scenes, with the help of Emilio’s loyal followers, Luis Fernandez picked right up where his brother left off after he was killed in prison. Under Luis’ watch, the prostitution ring had become more organized and more deadly, with young girls disappearing right under people’s noses and a steadily climbing body count.
I had no problem reminding the chief that I was retired, living the good life on the beach in California, and that this mission, not on US soil or involving US citizens, was not my problem. The first time we ventured into the Dominican to break up the prostitution ring, it was personal. One of our own had faked his death and claimed his spot as the son of President Fernandez, helping the sick bastard kidnap and rape young girls.
